The First Time I Kissed a Boy
by jadedcrystalide
Summary: A sad, confused boy living in a world of anger and pain, just trying to survive and cope. When he gets hospitalized and his 'friends' don't ever visit, things seem to be hopeless- but then he meets a strange boy called K who has sparkly eyes beneath a mask of scratches. /written with Ivan in mind but can be read from the POV of any male character/


**Hey !**

 **Okay so this story was made with Ivan in mind, from his point of view, and 'K' was meant to be Kevin which is why I put Ian and Kevin in the character section of the formatting.**

 ** _However , _no names are mentioned in this story so it can be from any male characters' point of view of your choosing! Ian, Tala, Bryan, Kai, Tyson- anyone you see fit! Which is what I quite like about it because even if you're not a fan of IvanXKevin, this story can still appeal to you if you imagine it in the POV of someone else!**

 **Content warnings: mentions of sex, self harm, suggested abuse, drug and alcohol abuse, suicide attempts and hospitalization (it does have a happy ending I promise :3)**

 **I don't own beyblade or any of the characters**

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I always followed my friends when it came to love. Cuddling girls, kissing girls, touching girls. They were typical 'banterous lads'- whatever that phrase even meant- and would often go to parties on Friday nights, drinking themselves dry and trying to flirt with whatever chick they managed to pick up. Though, sometimes they didn't care if she wanted to or not. But I tried to block those facts out.

Their companionship was all I'd ever wanted; granted, my standards were low and I had little reason to bring them up, but I still felt horrible if I ever doubted them for a second. Deep down I knew they were bad people, but hey, my options were limited and this was still better than anything else I had experienced at this point. "A troubled boy in a rough crowd" was what my old therapist described me as. Notice the word 'old'- she didn't last very long either. They never did. Always thinking they knew me and could 'fix me' with some bullshit coping methods. "Take a bath when your flashbacks start", "drink some tea and you'll feel better soon!" Sometimes I chose to never come back, sometimes they kicked me out after I told them to get fucked. Whatever.

I never understood why I so blindly followed my friends lead. Maybe I was scared they'd abandon me or turn on me or hurt me. Fucked up when I word it like that, but that's what I was used to. Not that they knew what I'd been through, I never told them anything, I just kept it in and let it out later with a blade or half a bottle of vodka.

I also never understood their fascination with girls and their breasts and asses and long hair and wide hips. Not their personality of course; they weren't nice enough to even consider that for a second, they didn't care. We were that group who sat on walls and whistled obscenities at any semi-attractive female that came within a 20 meter radius of us, yelling about how hot she was and that she should show us her tits, not caring about everyone else on the street.

Well, they were that group. I sat on the edge in the awkward position of half joining in, half trying to blend in with the bushes, feeling a weird mixture of guilt and confusion.

Sex felt nice physically. Though of course it wasn't something I willingly engaged in, was more so something I did to prove myself to my friends. I wasn't like them in this aspect though. They were rough and just wanted to get their dick wet for a couple of minutes. At least I made the girl that was underneath me moan. And it was always consensual, I always made sure she wasn't drunk and that we had condoms, I always made sure she could get home safely afterwards. I wasn't like them in that aspect either.

Of course afterwards you'd just laugh it off and talk about how tight she was, you'd try to ignore the crushing feeling of self-hatred that made your eyes glaze over and your stomach twist like a knife was being plunged into it. The overwhelming self-disgust that confused you so much more.

Why didn't I like it? Why didn't I care about how hot she was or how great her ass was? Why did it just give me another reason to hurt myself and get trashed the very next weekend?

I was 14 when I had sex for the first time, and only 16 when my friend found out he had got some chick pregnant. Begged her to have an abortion, and when she refused because her mother was a strict catholic, refused to have anything to do with the kid and cut contact from her altogether. He still jokes about it from time to time. "That bitch is looking after a kid while I'm here fucking her friends." I pretended to laugh and threw in a comment about living off government benefits or something.

Days at school were slowly replaced with bunking off and hanging around downtown with our older friends, homework papers were replaced with cigarette papers, a backpack full of science books was replaced with a duffel bag of alcohol (stolen, of course). The older friends did coke off pavements and shared heroine needles but at least they were nice. One even had a girlfriend.

Despite my growing self-hatred I was proud of myself that I never got too engaged with the drugs. I smoked weed to relax sometimes but that was always alone and for myself, never with my friends. Watching their skin grow pale and their eyes glassy still broke my heart in a strange way. They were people who had looked out for me and spent time around me, and even though they were awful in every way possible, I couldn't help but bite my lip 'til it bled whenever I saw them pull out the stolen money for a baggie of crack.

I tried to kill myself the same day that one of my friends got arrested for robbery. Everyone else went to see him down at the police station. I wasn't surprised and I didn't even care. Not sure I'd have wanted them in the hospital anyway.

When I was in the psych ward I met a guy. He never told me his name and preferred to go by 'K'- probably because he had schizophrenia, which was visible by the long, painful-looking scratches that he had raked down his face because he was certain someone was hunting him down and he didn't want his appearance to be distinguishable. I was wary of him at first, not because of the scratches but because he was so oddly _nice_ that I didn't know what to do with myself. When he wasn't mumbling about how they were coming for him he was telling me how pretty my eyes were and was stroking my hair.

That seemed to be a common recurrence for the poor souls in that place. The girl with anorexia told everyone how beautiful their bodies were, the boy who pulled his hair out and screamed in his sleep would read poetry to the younger teens. In a weird way, I kind of preferred it. Even found myself putting on weight with a regular planned diet. My skin was brighter and in bursts of 5 seconds at a time I felt slight optimism. The day my psychiatrist diagnosed me with major depression, borderline personality disorder and PTSD I came back to a shakily-made cake and all of my new friends gathered around. K told me that he had decorated it all by himself, and the blue icing sugar on his apron mirrored the color of letters on top of the cake which spelled 'stay strong'. It was beautiful.

Friends. I could use that word without hating myself. For the first time, there was meaning behind it.

The other guys didn't visit me once, and I was okay with that. The thought of their lanky bodies and sunken eyes and angrily-creased foreheads walking in and scaring K and the others made me angry. A few months ago I would have been heartbroken, would have spent days crying about how no-one cared, but now I finally realized that I didn't need them. I didn't need them and their drugs and shoplifting and loud voices.

K and I became closer, and once his scratches had healed I could see the beautiful boy underneath. Beautiful in personality and appearance; I already knew that he had the heart of an angel, but now I could take note of his soft caramel-colored skin and eyes that lit up whenever I entered the room. When I asked him where he was from he said he was Chinese, followed by a comment of "I think?" and a creased brow. Everything he did just seemed so… cute. Everyone else started getting discharged one by one, and saying goodbye was no easier as the days passed and I got used to it, though K stayed with me. Our target release dates were only a few days apart and he promised to wait for me. By this time I could see a huge change in his behavior: he didn't flinch as much when I touched him, he began to regularly take his medication, and I helped him become better at displaying his feelings in a healthy way.

Relying on drugs was one of my biggest fears, but now I understood that my preconceptions were based off myths and negativity. Taking my medication helped me to manage my mood swings and anger and unstable view on relationships. It helped me to sleep better and made my nightmares calm down. Well, K helped my nightmares calm down. At first he would come over to my bed and comfort me in the middle of the night, but eventually he just slipped in with me once the nurses had left and lay with me until the morning, which got rid of them completely. He was a great cuddler and smelt like vanilla and mint.

September 21 was my due date to be released, and it took a few days before I realized that this was exactly a week before my birthday. I was sad at first- birthdays had never been too great for me, and I'd usually spend them getting drunk alone, or forgetting about them completely. When I casually mentioned this to K he was more excited than I had ever been, and kept going on about throwing me the best party ever with just the two of us and lots of cake. Some of his enthusiasm sunk into me and I found myself looking forward to the 28th for the first time in my life.

He was great like that. His happiness was my happiness, his sadness was my sadness and we'd help each other feel better. Maybe this was what friendship was really like.

8 days before my release it hit me that I'd have to cope outside of the hospital. I distinctly remember being curled up in the corner of the broom cupboard, having a panic attack and digging my nails into my arms, trying to somehow open up the already-healed scars. Before being admitted I had been staying on friends couches or even sleeping outside when I couldn't afford a hostel or other place of accommodation. And now those friends had gone and I had nobody.

But I did have someone, that someone followed my sobs and found me in the cupboard, and sat next to me to hold me in his arms.

"I know it's scary, but you'll always have me. We'll get through this together."

"But I don't have anywhere to go! I don't want to sleep outside anymore. It's _cold_. It's so, so cold."

"You say that as if I haven't already arranged for you to live with me." K replied with a wink, and even in the near-darkness I could see his eyes sparkle. God, those eyes. They made me weak at the knees.

I stayed in his arms for a few minutes to calm my breathing, then looked up at him. His face was just inches from mine, and in the silence of the hospital I could hear his heartbeat and feel his breath on my face. It smelt like mint. My thoughts were racing all of a sudden and I could hear the blood rushing through my head and I somehow became aware of the fingers stroking my cheek and I somehow managed to close my eyes and then his lips were pressed against mine, the firm but gentle pressure feeling so perfect and so soft and so _right_.

For years I had wondered why I never felt attracted to girls. They were pretty and lovely but they just didn't appeal to me in any way other than a friend. Everyone else seemed to love them, and I just didn't. And for years I had felt broken and lost, wondering who or what I was.

Being gay never crossed my mind until I met K. His kindness confused me since I wasn't used to anything other than anger and abuse, but it didn't take me long to like him and want to get to know him. I always thought he was attractive both mentally and physically, and if it wasn't for me crying in a cupboard, I may never have realized that I was in love with him. The first time I kissed a girl I felt guilty and numb. The first time I kissed a boy I finally felt alive.

K was released on the 18th, and he'd return to his apartment that hadn't been touched for several months, which had been supported by the hospital in terms of rent. They had given him money to pay the bills for a couple of weeks as well as get food and other necessities, since he had obviously been released from his job and they understood that it would take a while to adjust to being out of the ward. His parting words to me were something along the lines of "I'mgonnapaintthebathroomgreen! Ifinallyhavethemotivationi'llseeyousoon!"and then he was gone, leaving me laughing at the sight of him running excitedly towards the hospital exit.

Fortunately the next three days were filled with paperwork and last minute check-ups, so they flew by. I missed K of course, but I was comforted with the thought that soon I'd be able to see him every minute of the day, and that he'd meet me outside when I was released.

And there he was. Open-armed, already looking so much more animated and healthy, running at me with a look of glee and relief. Knocked me straight over when we collided but I didn't mind, I was too busy laughing and smiling. We both struggled to catch the bus home (functioning in society again was a skill that proved to be surprisingly difficult) so we ended up having to walk. There were no awkward speechless moments, we both had so much to say, so much to look forward to. In a spark of confidence I intertwined my fingers with his and after a mutual blush continued to talk about what colour carpet our bedroom should have.

My birthday was the first time I had ever cried of happiness. K had put so much effort into decorating his- well, our- apartment and making a cake. This was enough to make my eyes water, but when he pulled out three gifts wrapped in gold paper I had to bury my head in his shoulder to hide the tears.

Inside the first package was a drawing. It was of me, him and a few of the other people from the hospital. The cake decorations had impressed me enough, but he was truly an amazing artist, and later he told me that he was going to attend art therapy to cope with his schizophrenia when the meds weren't enough. I said it was a brilliant idea.

The second held a collection of bracelets, of all different materials and colours and patterns: a red beaded one and a brown leather one and a green woolen one and a blue metallic one, a seemingly never-ending stream of these things. "They're for your arms. I know you get self-conscious about your scars so I thought you'd like to wear something colourful and pretty and happy so they don't seem as sad." I put every single one of them on and only take them off to shower and for bed.

The third one contained an envelope. At first I thought it was a birthday card, and I opened it with a smile, expecting another beautiful drawing. What was inside made my smile wobble and the tears start to fall freely down my face, and I turned to K and wrapped my arms around him again, sobbing "thank you"s and "I love you"s into his ear. He had used the money he'd saved up before being hospitalized to pay for me to go back to school and finish my studies. If I ever doubted my love for him before, now I could confidently say that I loved this man and every inch of his soul.

I was 19 when I made love for the first time. To my boyfriend, to a boy, to someone who made me proud to be whom I was. And it was passionate and it was loving and it bought us even closer.

We still struggled a lot. K never told me his real name, and I didn't mind. He still woke me up in the middle of the night sometimes so I could comfort him that no-one was out to hurt him and that the shadows in the bathroom were only a result of his hallucinations. I still had flashbacks and cut myself when things got too much, but he would hold me and buy me another bracelet for every mark, saying "light will always overpower darkness" every time he slipped them onto my wrists.

For the first time in 19 years, we were both happy, we were both loved, and we both felt right.

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 **Thank you for reading !**

 **This is my first fic on this account, I did have another account previously but it's like 3 years old and I dont want to die of cringing so I made another**

 **I personally struggle with depression and BPD, which can include mild psychosis, so I have experience with the mental illnesses mentioned and I'm not trying to be one of those quirky white girls who are like "lol mental illnesses are so cool and cute xD"**

 **I'm also always here if anyone needs to talk about anything or just be Frends!**

 **pls R &R if u have time but dont feel pressured n stuff **

**cool**


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